Where do long letters go, the ones
we type to past entanglements, delete
with a single keystroke? What invisible
processes of machine mind retain or
dispose? What if the best advice anyone
will ever give us is also the saddest? What then?
We knew where the papers went, dissolving
in pulpy toilet swirls or ashy leavings. We
breathed in the words, tickling our
nosehairs, triggering violent expulsions
from our lungs. The power and glory mingling
with shit or briefly illuminating a moonless night.
We are whelmed by the weight of homemade catastrophe,
so many suitable cleaning agents beyond forensics, faces
we knew but don’t know anymore. Starting over
shines simple in the sunlight, but in the dark hours
the tide pulls back, takes off our masks, dares us
gently to go there, to remake mistakes.
I want to get high on the couch and never move. I
want Jules to summon the Wolf to clean up the blood and
brain bits. I want to be as good a man as my father.
I want to hide myself from temptation. I want to leave
this world less broken than I came to it. I want
the cleansing fire hose of forgiveness. I want to disappear.